


The Garden and The Mountain

by Wolflyn



Category: POKEMON Detective Pikachu (2019), Pocket Monsters | Pokemon - All Media Types
Genre: Character Study, Found Family, Gen, Lost Home, Origin Story, POV First Person, a little bit not, a little bit sorrowful, an ode to the Torterra Garden, introspective, okay so I have been informed it is a lot sorrowful
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-01
Updated: 2019-07-01
Packaged: 2020-06-06 03:24:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,919
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19435123
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wolflyn/pseuds/Wolflyn
Summary: Experimental subject #012TOR-004 was not always a part of the garden.  They remember the feel of the sun on their face and a breeze on their back.  But that seems like a lifetime ago.  In the garden, there is only a faint trace of those memories.  The walls are too close and the sky is too dark and the smell of the ground is laced with scents of unfamiliar things.  But there is hope.  Because what was once part of nature always returns to nature; in one form or another.





	The Garden and The Mountain

I was the forest. As my mother was, and her mother before that. We have always been one with nature along with the rest of our kin. Tilling the earth with our snouts, providing shade from our canopies, nestling amongst the underbrush to nurture and care for the plants who are our brethren. Our life was of the forest, and the forest was full of life.

But I am the forest no longer. There was a commotion in our home. The ground shook and the trees quaked with fear as the humans entered into our realm. They took what they wanted and trampled what they didn't, and when my brothers and sisters stood up against them, they did not hesitate. The last thing I can recall from that day was a sharp pain in my leg, and then the forest spun around me in a blur of greens and blues and blacks. And then it was gone.

* * *

I do not know what I am now. I am still myself, and the same can be said for my kin who share this new home with me. But in this place we are now, we do not know what it makes us. We are not the forest. There are no bushes or grass around us, no trees above us, nor earth beneath our claws. The sky is too flat and too low, and the stagnant air is neither sweet nor musky. The forest is tranquil, but it is not this still. This place breeds restlessness in our souls.

Yet we are unable to cope with it as we would normally. When the forest around us was too tired to provide, we would pick up and move to a patch more suited to our needs. The old home would flourish in time, and we knew this, as the forest was as changing and alive as any one of us. But there is a lifeless cold in this new home, and we are unable huddle together as we would when the winters come and our trunks lay bare. The metallic stench of the too-thin tree trunks that enclose us is too ugly for us to challenge their guard. We sit and we shuffle in place, retracing our footsteps too many times to count. When I look through the metal forest to my brothers and sisters, my spirit sinks. I can see their canopies are as withered as my own.

At night, when the humans have gone, we sing a song of sorrow for what we have lost. A longing for the warmth of the sun on our backs, for the chill of dew on our nose. For the wind in our leaves, for the moss underfoot. For the sky to cry when it is grey, and when it lights aflame before morning and night. And when we are too tired to sing any longer, there is a faint echo in this cold dark place, an echo of a sorrowful song in a tongue that is not our own. The next night we sing our song for their losses, too.

* * *

One day, there is a change to our home. Not the gradual change of the forest, where the wind begins to shift and the scents begin to change and the trees smile in new colors. This change is sudden and all at once. We awake to what feels like a dream.

Beyond the metal trunks sits a paradise, lush and verdant like we have never seen before; not even our old home had been this bountiful. Greenery spills in from all sides so thick it almost obscures the peaty ground from which they sprout. Gone is the barren, lifeless floor upon which we sat. Flowers and brush and shrubs and trees— It is too remarkable a task to even name all of the plants we now gaze upon.

There are some of us who are hesitant to believe, but the forest does not lie. The vegetation, the earth, everything we had lost and mourned, it is all real. I can smell it in the air, and I can feel it beneath my toes. The moisture tickles my nostrils as I shuffle through the sudden gap in the metal tree trunks. The forest has somehow come to us.

No, this is not really our home. My giddiness has almost made me forget, but the sky above also does not lie. It is still too dark and too close and to flat. This is not the forest, but it also is not that cold sorrowful home of nights past. The humans watch us from the edge of the greenery, and I can hear them babble excitedly amongst themselves. We decide to borrow from their tongue to bestow this place a new name. We know this is not the forest. It is the garden.

* * *

Time passes strangely in the garden. It is not like the restless hours first spent away from our home. We feel more at ease amongst the plants, finally able to roam freely, to eat and sleep as we please. But it is not quite like the real forest, either. Every so often, I will nudge through the underbrush, only to bump my snout against the solid edge of the garden beyond. Sometimes, one of my brothers or sisters will disappear into the foliage and when I go to follow, they are simply gone, with nothing but another bump of the snout to greet me. They later reappear back in our midst as if nothing has happened. It is a puzzling mystery, how the edges of the garden seems to have the ability to make things vanish. Puzzling enough that some of my kin will not stray far from the garden's center.

I do not share their reservations, and I find myself with the urge to explore every corner of our new home. To say that part of that urge came from wanting to solve the mystery of the garden's boundaries would not be a lie. It is precisely because of that reason that I discovered the answer to the mystery. I had been grazing near the garden's edge one morning when it rumbled a strange sound. Curious, I looked up and was greeted by a flash of light. I can vividly recall a strange rush of air followed by a sharp pinch, and then dizziness. The rest is a blur of sounds and sensations I still can not clearly recall. All I know is that I found myself back in the center of the garden with wobbly legs and an uneasy churning in my gut. I do not know if it is from what they have done to me, or from the realization that I had solved the mystery: the edge of the garden can open, and this is the doing of the humans.

I find myself unwilling to do much after that incident. My body aches and my head swims, and even though I eat and drink only sparingly, the tree on my back is flourishing. Its canopy is nearly twice the size it normally is. I chalk my unease up to having to compensate for the unwieldiness. Or at least I try to. I am so tired all I can do is bury myself in the soil and sleep until I wake from the discomfort of having my nest feel too-small against my body. I grumble and complain and wallow a bigger nest for myself before falling back asleep.

My herd-mates share concern for my lethargy, but I know they cannot truly understand. Not unless they have seen what I had seen. I am grumpy and stubborn and it is because of this I am ignorant to the plight of my kin. Of my brothers and sisters who had been taken away from the garden like I had been. How they have vanished from our midst again, and I am too miserable to notice they have gone. The garden feels like it has gotten smaller since that day. I pray it is simply my loneliness, and not anything more sinister than that.

* * *

I soon come to realize the dizziness I have felt since that day is not an illness. It is because I am further from the earth than I ever have been. The garden was not getting smaller. I am now nearly as large as the garden itself. My herd-mates can fit beneath the space between my belly and the ground. My legs are the size of the trees of our home, and double that of my brother's and sister's own. The rocky ridges on my shell have grown into boulders that protrude at odd angles. They scrape against things when I move, sending trees crashing to the ground in my wake. The canopy of my tree brushes uncomfortably against the solid sky, and I find myself breaking branches as I try to get comfortable. Dying leaves rain behind me in dry, crackling tears when I move. It is shameful to carry such a scar.

My herd-mates are not happy with their lack of space. I wish I could still bury myself in the soil to hide from the stares of my kin, but it is no longer deep enough to cover me. I cannot do much aside from apologize for becoming the size of the space they have given us. To atone, I sleep on my feet to afford them access to the vegetation that would otherwise be crushed beneath my shell. It is an exhausting existence, and it is worryingly often that I find myself wishing it would end. My heart aches every time I think so, but at least it distracts from the way the rest of me aches all of the time. I cannot help but notice the solid sky feels closer every time I wake. I do not live in the garden any longer. I _am_ the garden.

* * *

I no longer want to be the garden. My shell has doubled in weight since the first day the earth became further away, and as thick as my legs have become, they are weak. This morning I stumbled and crashed to the far-earth. Our home shook when I hit the ground, and that sent the humans running. There was much yelling and panicked gestures and I could not focus much beyond the stars that danced in my eyes. Their fear upon seeing what I had done only served to increase my own, despite my ignorance. It wasn't long before I realized. The anger they cried at me will never be punishment enough for what I had done. I crushed two of my herd-mates beneath me when I fell. I still do not know if there will ever be a way to atone for ending the light of their lives.

It is a blessing —or as much of a blessing as one such as myself deserves— that shortly after the incident, I am banished from the garden. The humans returned with sharp objects and loud words and poked and pushed until I backed against the garden's edge to try to escape their onslaught. When I thought I had nowhere left to retreat, the garden edge opened from behind me and the humans pushed me through. The rest of my herd-mates watched in fear, whether it was of me or the humans, I do not know. I do not blame them for not wanting to intervene.

No matter the reason, I was too distraught to notice that the sky above my head had lifted to its true height, and the solid edges of the garden had melted away, and the soil beneath my feet no longer was laced with foreign smells. It was only after the humans retreated, sealing the garden shut behind them, that I realized all of these things.

I was no longer a captive of the garden. Yes, the metal trees had returned, running a border all around me, but even their cold indifference could not hide the scent of the forest on the wind. The one wish I had asked for, coveted ever since that day when we were taken from our home, had been granted in terrifying fashion. In return for this boon, my brothers and sisters were stolen from me. I still am unsure if the price was too high. Despite the loneliness that closed around my heart that night, the tears I shed were those of broken joy.

* * *

I have not stopped growing ever since my expulsion from the garden. It was only a matter of days before my enclosure was too small once again, except this time I did not fear the metal trees. I grew so far from the earth that I towered above their thin canopies. From beyond the edge of their stand I could see the open plains, and beyond that, the mountains that surrounded the place my kind had called their home for centuries. I could smell it, I could taste it. Not even trees made of metal could stop my desire, my _yearning_ for my ancestral home. The metal crumpled beneath my feet as I set my destination and started walking. No one came to stop me, and in my determination I doubt even the humans could have if they wanted to. I am glad that they did not.

The garden shrank smaller and smaller behind me as I pressed onward. I realized as I walked that by association, my brothers and sisters were just as small. In all my time on this earth, I had never seen another of my kin who looked like me; towering, massive, unwieldy. The trees in the forest are massive ancient beings, but as I am now, I worry they no longer have room for my presence within their midst. Even if I did return to the forest, there is no place left for me. I am an outcast from my home, my family, and my own kind.

I decide that regardless of what awaits me once I cross that plain and reach the edge of the sloping foothills, I would keep walking. The mountains always stand alone. If I cannot be the forest, tomorrow, I will be the mountain.

* * *

The dawn light brings with it hope. I had been walking all night, and finally I can see how the grasslands are split by rocky outcroppings. To the west I know to be a valley tucked within the sloping arms of the mountains. There lies the forest, my home, my kin. With my size I am certain I could see the green canopies if I look. But I do not. The time to mourn has long since past. I turn my snout toward the rising sun and begin to climb. The ascent is easier than I recall. The reason is obvious as my stride now covers ten times more distance than my brothers and sisters'.

There is a bit of solace in the sparse brush and trees that are scattered about the mountains. I will not feel entirely out of place here. In a way, it actually matches the landscape of my shell, so large now that it plays host to a variety of plants. Vines, shrubs, grasses, even other trees all live beneath my canopy; a veritable forest all on its own. I cannot help but find amusement in the irony. I can no longer return to the forest, so I will carry my own forest with me. I say it in jest, but soon it becomes strangely comforting. A part of me wonders if the spirits of those that were lost in the garden have found new life upon my back. If they are with me, I am happy they have chosen me to be their shepherd. And so I climb.

I continue on for some time until something unexpected happens. Upon my next step there is a cracking of stone and soil, and the ground begins to rumble. For a moment, I fear my time has come and the earth will open up and swallow me into its depths, but something even more unlikely happens. The ground before me rises all at once; a massive slab of boulders and trees and earth. It rises with a shuddering rumble and a voice so deep I find myself taking a hesitant step back.

 _"Welcome, child,"_ it says to me, voice full of dust and rocks and wisdom.

The mountain has a voice. The mountain is _speaking_. Then slowly it turns its head and finds my gaze with its own. And then I understand that I am not alone. The ground rumbles again and again, each one signaling another brother and sister I had long since assumed to be lost. They all rise to their feet, rocky canopies scraping the sky despite it being so far away. They are all here, they have all journeyed away from the garden as I had, carrying the weight of their hopes and dreams with them. And I had found them. I nearly weep tears of joy. Instead, I throw my head back and sing, and across the hills voice after voice joins in until the air is filled with sound. Then one by one, they all settle back down into their hollows, and I follow suit, easily creating my own resting place at the edge of the foothills. I am no longer a part of the garden.

I am the mountain. I am the forest. I am with my family. I am home.


End file.
